


Key Change

by ishouldwritethatdown



Series: Useless Rinch Trash [6]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fluff, I dont know how to tag things, M/M, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:53:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7286092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishouldwritethatdown/pseuds/ishouldwritethatdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold has a secret habit of singing when he's bored. John tries to pretend he doesn't notice, but he's an awkward duck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Key Change

John could hear Finch singing. It was faint, but sound carried well across the Subway. Harold was stationed at his desk, completing some apparently mind-numbing task that John couldn’t pretend to understand the specifics of.

He, meanwhile, was in the subway car, cleaning the weapons and replacing them in the correct compartment. Shaw kept ruining his system. But what did he expect from a woman that used her fridge to store guns?

He was well into his re-organisation when he became aware of Harold’s singing. He must have forgotten he wasn’t alone. John dared not make a sound in case he felt compelled to stop.

This wasn’t the first time Harold had demonstrated this ability. Years ago now, he had begun humming softly over the comms as they worked a number, unaware that John could hear him. He didn’t say anything, quite enjoying the soundtrack to what was, at that point, a boring case of watching the number and waiting for a threat to emerge. The tune evolved to containing words, indistinct but definitely there. Sometime after he had stopped singing, Harold must have noticed that he wasn’t muted because he had spoken awkwardly in short sentences when the need next arose.

John wondered if Harold remembered the incident. He had never teased him, or commented at all, as it was clearly something he wasn’t totally secure in. It had never come up again, and Finch either stopped doing it or just made extra sure the comms were muted when he did.

But it seemed he had maintained the habit, and John didn’t want to discourage him by revealing that he was still present. He had stopped his reorganisation in an effort to stay quiet. He had to remind himself not to hold his breath.

John didn’t recognise the song, and probably wouldn’t even if he could hear the words clearly. He was content to just listen for a while, leaning against the desk, hearing Harold’s voice harmonising with the hums of the electronics occupying the Subway. It was nice. Calming, even.

John tried to reposition himself to be a little more comfortable, but in the process he knocked a cleaning implement off the table. It clattered to the floor, the tiny noise seeming to reverberate throughout the Subway. John winced. The singing stopped abruptly.

After a moment’s hesitation, John called out, “Sorry. It’s just me.”

He was met with no response. His face turning hot, he silently cursed himself. He had probably ruined the whole thing now.

He heard Harold’s uneven footsteps move from his workstation over to the subway car. Inexplicably, to him at least, John’s heart quickened and his face went redder. He tried to shuffle into a better line of sight for the car door and he stepped on the cleaning tool, snapping it neatly in half.

Idiot.

Harold appeared in the opening of the door. He looked somewhat nervous, as if he was ashamed of what John had witnessed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Reese, I didn’t realise you were still here.”

John cleared his throat, “I was just, um– well, I didn’t–“ Midway through his mismatched sentence it occurred to him to step off the broken tool. He gestured vaguely at the compartments, “It wasn’t a problem.” The gestures he was making with his hands had no correspondence to what he was saying.

Harold looked suitably confused. With reference to the broken tool, he asked, “Is everything alright?”

“I’m good. Alright– good. Yep.” With every garbled word, John became more flustered. He was suddenly finding the subway car too cramped. “Are you– good, al-alright?”

“I’m fine, John,” Harold replied, his brow creased.

John was struggling to remember how to breathe a little bit. After a tense, quiet moment, the words spilled out, “Sorry if I invaded something private itjustsoundedniceandIdidn’twanttodisturbyousorry.”

Harold gave a slightly shy, but bemused, smile. “It’s quite alright, John.”

John just focused on breathing properly.

“I suppose I’ll leave you to get back to it, then,” Harold said, starting to turn.

“Do you sing often?” John blurted. He had said it before he could even consider what he was saying. Regret instantly flushed him.

Harold paused, casting his eyes down in consideration. “I don’t suppose I do. There rarely seems time for such things now.”

“Right,” John nodded as if his response would have been any different if he’d said the opposite. He was too caught up in his own sweaty embarrassment to register exactly what Finch was saying until full seconds later. He opened his mouth to speak again, thought better of it, then said anyway, far too fast, “Youcankeepsingingifyouwant.”

There was an eternity enclosed in the three seconds it took Harold to look away, nod, and start back towards his desk.

John was about ready to melt into a puddle on the floor. As he bent down to pick up the fragments of broken tool on the car floor, face and hands still burning, he mouthed curses to himself. If only he had managed to keep quiet…

Suddenly, John became aware amidst his cursing that Harold was humming to himself again. It wasn’t the peaceful, confident melody from before, it was a little slower and more shaky.

John went redder for only a moment before breaking out into a smile. The continuation of the melody, or a melody at least, was a signal that listening wasn’t somehow wrong or invasive. It released the pressure that came with it, and John felt his entire self relax into the song. His breathing steadied, the subway car stopped seeming like a trap. Everything was fine. Harold was singing.

He finished his reorganisation leisurely and let Harold’s voice flow through his ears. It seemed that by the second, each syllable was pronounced more clearly, each note more confident.

When he was done with the compartments, three songs later, John left the subway car and walked over to the workstation where Harold was singing. Still as background to a boring task, still with his eyes glued to the computer screen, but singing nonetheless. John leaned against the desk, just enjoying the sensation of being near Harold.

Eventually, the song came to an end. Instead of starting another one, Harold turned in his chair to look at his audience. The shyness he’d had about him before was almost completely gone.

“You have a nice voice,” John commented. The pure love displayed in his eyes made a far more powerful one.

“It’s best when I’m not undercover as someone’s Irish uncle,” Finch recollected. A smile spread across John’s face with ease.

In sync, John pushed himself off the desk and Harold stood from his chair. They were so close to one another that brushing hands could easily have been mistaken for an accident. As they made unwavering eye contact, the air between them where their breaths mixed seemed to gain a warm tension.

“You’re beautiful,” John said softly, meaning every aspect of him, from his clear blue eyes to his brilliant mind to his perfect voice.

Harold was the one to lean forward, and when John tasted his lips, they were even sweeter than his singing voice.

**Author's Note:**

> ever since AMPU I've wanted to write something about Finch singing to John, so here it is. feedback is much appreciated as always! :)


End file.
